From the cinnamon coves of Tropea to the lemon terraces above Hydra, Costa keeps a small book of houses where the day is allowed to dissolve into afternoon, and afternoon into a long, lit dinner.
A stone house above the harbour, three rooms, one fig tree, and a donkey to fetch the wine.
A timber cabin on the dune, walking distance to the longest beach in southern Europe and one fishing village.
A two-bedroom limestone house at the end of a goat path, fitted with a borrowed sailboat.
A black-stone domed cottage with a hot spring at the bottom of the garden and the African wind for company.
A whitewashed compound on a hill, four bedrooms around an open courtyard, the chapel still in use.
Costa does not work like a hotel. A friend of the house meets you at the gate, fills the fridge with the things in season, and tells you which side of the cove the afternoon light favours. After that, the calendar belongs to you.
"We arrived to a fridge full of figs and a note that said 'the boy down at the boatyard knows you are coming'. We never opened the front door for ten days."